Best Basting Poems
I am the wind
beneath the
sparrows wings
as it heavenly sings.
I am the single rose
sitting in a barren land.
I am the the lions voice,
and the partridge voice as they
rejoice.
I am the beam of light
penetrating the vastness
of the worlds darkness.
The secret power is
no secret,the secret
power is me.
I am the secret power revealed
and concealed in greatness.
I am the suns majestic flames.
The clarity of rain drops,
the zest ,to the minds
bland thoughts of boredom.
I am entertainment.
I am the wood pecker,
soaring steadily in the
balmy winds picking at success.
I am the eagles soaring over
sweet allysum, capturing the sent.
Stupendous I am,
Preening my mind with knowledge,
a pen rigged with wisdom,
wisdom speaks beyond paper
as it leaks from the pore of my quill.
I am the potion full of devotion.
My pen rigged with morphine,
killing I hope the pain of my readers
with poems.
You are no longer lugubrious,
lugubrious you are not.
Healed and fixed upon the first dosage.
I am ,I am ,
I am the poetic doctor,wooing medicine
from the green pastures,
to robe my pen with healing secrets.
I am the nectarines of peach orchards
basting the mouth of pages with sweet words.
Sweet splash sweet splash. I am the sweet taste.
I am the revival of a sun baked raisin, the
revival to a corps laying beneath circling
vultures of the Arabian dessert.
I am the fragments of light circling your heart,a campfire,
the supplier of its poetic aspire.
I am the fridge for poetic dreams,
preventing from expire, raising
heat of poetry soup higher and higher.
Ill never retire until my face
wrinkled and my hair grey wire.
My pen aiming for a writing desire.
On icy roads I keep traction with
hot ink and mental snow tires.
I am a poet wrobed with
creative ink and sapphire.
I am safe gaurding the gates
of a dying world of poetry.
looked upon as a fool why should I stop,
because kids from high school saide iam not cool,
what is their some rule that makes it uncool.
It must be april fools ,safe guarding
your desire is a golden rule.
I am the hope, iam poetrys stool fueling
it with my hand tool full of ink iam the talisman of poetrys gates.
I know who I am and this inspires ME!!!
By: Elliott Bowe
Inspirational Contest
Sponsor:Gail Doyle
Little Black Box
Where You lie Sleeping
Little Black Box
Your Secrets Keeping
You'll Never Talk
In That Little Black Box
UnMarked Grave
Where You Are Wasting
UnMarked Grave
In Soil Basting
Just another Knave
In An Unmarked Grave
Everybody there is wearing black
No one standing there wants you back
people walk away you hear them talk
As someone throws dirt upon the box
Dirty little womb
Buried under the stone
Dirty little womb
Lying there alone
never be exhumed
From a dirty little womb
As snows gently coat the land
Breezes softly brush it into peaks.
Candles glitter and flutter in windows
Deep shadows flicker in their light.
Enchanting dazzling gems sparkling
Frosty branches dress the clearing
Garnishing the white landscape
Hark! hear the sleigh bells tinkering
It's Santa delivering the presents
Jolly Ho-Ho's ring out as he passes
Kicking the reindeer speed onwards
Leaving a sparkling trail behind them
Maples trees majestically line the path
Nightingale's sweet tones ring out
Over the snowy valley echoing
Partridges plump and fat basting
Quail are turning on the spit
Roast potatoes crisp and golden brown
Simmering vegetables steaming
Toasted marshmallows all gooey
Utterly delicious as they melt on tongue
Victoriously the bells peel out
With great Joy announcing the birth
Xylophones cheerfully join in
Yearning hearts beating in tandem
Zeal fully they meet and mingle
Dawn awakens, lets yawn red searing sigh,
summer steams sweltering sweating sunlight.
Street's hot bed of coals smolders in July,
temperatures torch with tropical smite.
Haze humid stir-frying Bronx crispy craze,
housing is tinder, youth straggle sapped streets.
Rainstorm naught, nothing to break basting braise,
community chafing white wicked heat.
Day, baked yellow clay, dust dry makes you swoon...
pool of cool baptizing childrens’ new truth;
Mercy! Water main break floods ‘fore high noon,
thirst quenched, street's fluid, flows fountain of youth!
Liquid color splashes in rainbow spray,
heads happily anointed with prism pour.
Black-white exist - gray day grit washed away,
hearts watercolored in need of restore.
Revelry riots in verdant voices,
sprightliness sings in city oasis!
Eyes excite, smiles shine, refresh rejoices,
joie de vivre, full of life faces!
People all ages on sidewalk's sideline,
wish to beat heat but sadly no swim clothes.
‘Boxing ring’ pool, he imagines round nine,
celebrant boy smiles, strikes Jack Dempsey pose!
Susan Ashley
August 25, 2017
When she was just fifteen…
She was but a child
But a sweet teen
She was kind of wild
Full of desire
Excited about love
In the ivory palaces of her mind
Which rose a white dove:
With a fury
Flawless in a never changing
World ...
She was just fifteen….
When she was twenty one
She was an adult
Unfolding splendor in the shades of heaven
Which she bought
To place a kiss that multiplied seven
With her sweet rapture
With beauty that glistens
With every rainbow
That played in with a light that shines
Looking for love
Like a delicate flower
With a heart of amorous whispers
So pleasing to her design
She was but twenty one….
When she was just thirty two
She had children
Her lovely face never hidden
With simple stories of heaven
With letters of praise
But still looking for love
Where love burns brilliantly
But all in the wrong places
Where the fullness of sweetness
Surrounds her with such wonders
She was but thirty two
When she was just forty five
She was abounding in glory
With hands holding
But she couldn’t say the words
With the sun bulging
Pulsating in her throat
Nothing could escape her sweet star
The word is love but still looking
With sweet air that turns
Mournful into light rain
Of her mind
She was just forty five...
When she was just fifty
Heaven was just beyond her door
Looking in the mirror
Where she didn’t know anymore
She thought she found love
In the winds of her chariot
But he went away
Her passion the most mindful of her soul
With grace and beauty in its divine power
She was just fifty...
When she was fifty five
The winds of time
On a hot summer night
Then she saw the light
And that
Took away the right
Of sweet love she thought
Where a scared space of the world
Let go and she sought
She was only fifty five...
When she was just sixty years old
She had lost love
It was not always so
A star she couldn’t resist
And found love
Her love was earth rising
With the most remarkable being
With a noble soul
Of denying love to be
Sought a different oblivion
Now all that remain are memories
Drowning the already dead
She was just sixty
Sweet letters of her soul from the beginning to the end; her lovely face never ending:
With scared looks and noble gesture her eyes were inflamed with the sun, basting in the glory of night.
Reaching for the one that she truly loves:
DIFFERENT AGES AND HER DIFFERENT LOVES
Brooke Dyan 2014
Turkey in the oven.
Hands on basting and rubbing.
All adults on deck for setting the table.
Not a seat empty for even a child so able.
Knocks on the door as family arrives.
So happy Mom's in the kitchen, now we'll survive.
Getting the TV all warmed up for a day of football.
In and out the kids run up and down the hall.
Velvet cake hides behind the fruit not seen.
In comes the family passing through the kitchen with gleam.
No samples tasted for Mom is the boss.
Getting ready for this meal still a salad to be tossed.
Day begins with smiles and joy.
All fall asleep for the deserts are my toy.
You have to love this day of thanks for Mom and Dad and every girl and boy.
Mingling multiplying minnows marvel masterfully and jaded hooded jalapenos race to the scene. For a pretty fortress is unveiled to a mass highway injection. In a timed spring curve heap hats. In a basting tree wear a nice vest with some heels. As a storm passes remember that a nine inch dome bowl is often a domesticated chatter box and holds vast amounts of information and instructional words to many a passing mouse. So always put leaves in a soup. Wear a spade and trowel. Mix a temple with a house to form associations of a flowery day. Snowing is great fun for those pickled and pins can win in toboggan competitions in world wide juxtaposition. Is merely a global push. A capitalist catapulting cavey. An orchestra of a self shrouded mission bomb. Swooping swerving swimming in acres of grasslands. Timelords. Tinkering. Tinkling. Tin. Tan. Ton. Tone. Dare to cross a washing line of over 800 metres. Balance on a scone. Sit on a sandwich. Or swim in a broth. Cavity carnal caves creating clapping dance. 3% of an oceanographic octopus at a grand ball. Oh how quite exquisite. Punky puffing puffins. Opulence. Orifices of domestic fishes. Cinema of calibration. *** moonbeams
"Idling"
Cool cold froth
slides across their pages
they whirl their congratulatory comments
like pucks across ice crystal cut sharp and precise
waiting for return compliments
basting their words with oily accomplishment
slick and to strict recipe
baking like fat turkeys
with temperatures
mild and appetites easily
assuaged
How does a person come to this?
They think of words and throw them
to the wolves like sticks
for return
Wolves will take their words
strip all bones ragged of stories
bury them
and then silently,
without a backward glance
never return
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
“Their pooled emotions wouldn’t fill a teaspoon.”
“They sicken of the calm who know the storm.”
“That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone:
Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment.”
Dot Parker
"What Fresh Hell is This?"
"xanny"/Billie Eilish
https://youtu.be/OYyyce8K_c0
"Purgatory is a Poem"/ LadyLabyrinth
Incense clings in the air
great clouds
stealing into dark corners
of stained wood and cold marble floors.
I watch the casket roll by
and memories take me.
Unwilling.
Here I knelt on red velvet cushions and confessed my darkest sins.
Mortal an venial.
Hats, white gloves strewn on benches -- hard as the dogma they taught.
My summer uniform
a red bow tie, seersucker pants, white bucks.
Why was Christ always in agony?
After we begged him for love, back at the apartment above Auburndale Plumbing Supply, a stream of aunts would come, hover around the stove, basting the roast, mashing potatoes.
They sang Irish ballads and "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."
The talk was of Jack and Jackie, American saints.
A Catholic in the White House ... finally.
My uncles downed red and white colored cans of Rheingold ...
talked of fishing trips,
concrete and drywall,
the ******* down South.
"Jesus. They're making trouble."
Uncle Dennis clipped open his silver lighter and lit a Lucky Strike.
We hushed when he spoke of the Battle of the Bulge ... Cuba ... Russia.
I fought off his embrace ... the smell of smoke and whiskey.
On the living room wall, the Sacred Heart dripped blood ... and made me wonder.
All these years in heaven, and Jesus was still looked sad.
The smell of turkey fills the house
and the mind and tongue are consumed
with memories and scents of holidays passed.
The aroma is so familiar with images of Gramma in the kitchen
basting that succulent bird and all the sides
as it tingles taste buds with unbearable anticipation.
The feast most promising with recaptured pictures, football games
and stuffing, biscuits, cranberries, and mashed potatoes
made with tender care and love to await family gathering.
Those days seem long gone now, lost to past celebrations
but the mind and heart remain full forever
with laughter, joy, love and those heartfelt memories
at Thanksgiving.
Back Creek Smells
My nose senses the unseen,
Like a final Act’s scene,
When I arrive near the Bay,
I sense my sinuses are gray,
From inhaling the city.
Fish scents replace the gritty,
Creosote soaked wharves,
Instead of perfumed scarves.
Smelling imitates tasting,
Licking’s like nostrils basting.
Something’s earthy of water,
Meet mother Nature’s father.
The odors of Back Creek,
Have no comfort for the weak,
But a fragrance it has,
If it was music, it would be jazz.
BASTED BRAIN
........
Your BRAIN is a terrible thing to BASTE !!
It's NOT a piece of meat to cook and WASTE !!
Would you prepare the most impeccable, delectable
select cut of meat with ............
TOXIC POISONS, UNDETECTABLE INNOCUOUS INGREDIENTS
BRAIN COOKING, BODY WASTING, MORAL IMPEDMENTS
FAMILY DESTRUCTION, CRIME ERUPTION, NO NORMAL THOUGHT
OR FUNCTION
GET A HIGHER HIGH EVEN THOUGH YOU MIGHT DIE SEDUCTION
PARENTLESS CHILDREN ZOOMING, DEATH LOOMING
FUNERAL HOME BUSINESS BOOMING
How did brain basting evolve to fried, dried and DEAD.......
???? ???? ???? ????
ADDICTION IS PROFOUNDLY COMPLEX
ANSWERS PERHAPS MORE PERPLEXING
SOMETIMES USE OF LESS LETHAL POTIONS
JAIL OR PRISON NOT THE SOLUTIONS
CRISIS SITUATIONS
DIRE IMPLICATIONS
EMERGENT IMPLEMENTATIONS
ANSWERS INVESTIGATIONS
AND STILL, MORE OVERDOSES
AND DEATHS
MAJOR PROGRESS WITH NARCAN AVAILABILTY
SAVING THE CARCASSES, AGAIN, RAVAGED FROM HUMAN FRAILITIES
SO OFTEN ALL HOPE IS LOST
DRUGS WON
WE LOST...................
BUT...... cannot give up...........!!
In a royal antibacterial waste machine one must wait for the willing vibrancy of the whistling seal. Dressed neatly in a three piece suit he sits on a rock and calls to the breezes on which there are so few. In the era of expunging elitist effigies there exists far less than in a previous era so dimensions have developed a more triangular appearance. Seal looks on. Temperate falling skies bring all weathers and still not too many feathers on a beaded wind. A cloth can move around to bring alterations but altercations are caused by many plastic helmeted men who proudly hold the spray. And spraying is often located even in a bread. Or a small currant. Or sultana. Managed mainly manufactured. Measly mass monstrous movements. No moccasins here then. And thus the page is turned until the avenue is in sight. Roll roll roll. Here comes the square car. Beep beep. Out of which comes a giraffe, a penguin, a sea turtle with bright lips, and a monstrous fig tree complete with a very tall hat that reaches to Jupiter. When that is wiped the flight paths of emus sail to even the most far flung regions of the globe. And travesty is not travelling it is trapping and taming. Should one really place ham in a sandwich when pork should be free to roam? All aboard then. Is everyone ready? Comfortable? Enchanted? Good. For time is short. And a boom boom boom is arriving to stunt even the most strongest of plants into an oblivion of a scale. But not a scale of C. A scale of 0. No charging buffalo could ever stand true if the prefered angle is in a skirt or a bosum. And a bohemian's car is a secret castle. Watch out there is a lady who spews curd. Mongoose style of neck. So a mongoose and a buffalo do go to dinner to entertain for great plans are being made and a global economy has an appointment at the gym. So hahaha to all that. And place the 900 nappies in the bin. For the 890 children will surely mean that the £ will pay the way. House heating. And a heavy wide load giggling with a small town. Xxxxx high heels mooo looping. Xxxxx kittens kitty xxxxx belligerent buffer bluffing xxxxx done. And that was the p y q who was reporting live from a dinner hall in 1528. Z.
Jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Way off key
Way to forget the bottle of wine
Wine and dine
Wine stains the tablecloth red
Red and orange fires flickering
Red ribbons tied
Tied for first for buying the worst one
Tied string around the honey ham
Ham basting
Ham baking
Baking cookies cut to shape
Baking for days
Days of winter
Days of laughter
Laughter bounces
Laughter like a hug
Hug each family member
Hug each friend
Friend I am glad you came
Friend I am sad to see you go
Go out into the night to sing carols
Go to see if the neighbor needs help with the lights
Lights sparkling in the window as dawn dwindles
Lights are cheerful even when no one is watching
Watching paper shredded fall to the floor
Watching the snow fall
Fall down and make an angel
Fall into his arms
Arms wrapped with hands clasped aound my waist like a bow
Arms full of colored boxes
Boxes of candy and chocolates
Boxes of toys
Toys that need batteries
Toys that we have to share
Share your deep stare
Share the last piece of cake
Cake shaped into a red velvet hat
Cake covered faces
Faces with dimples
Faces wrinkled
Wrinkled napkins
Wrinkled slacks worn the day before
Before we close the door one last time
Before we go to sleep
Sleep is heavy, calm and warm
Sleep teeters on the edge of a steaming mug
Mug
Warm
Seventy two millimetres of giant oink isn't a mild fashion statement. It is a hook and curve with two crevasses. A creche in a canyon jump is a dramatic effort of tree construction. A limpet lump can bring much luck to a tulip who smiles in a breezy field. Whilst free forming a piece of pie is mostly equivalent to a large vibrating fridge freezer whose legs whirl in a tinted air of colony. Oh look a basting vest. Vehicular movements. Peak of a partridge beak. Yellow yachtsman yapping yeast. Directional orbital flow. Flights of officialdom. Narrowed in broths. Fashion a fish favourably as it is driving a lorry. *** ha and eat 600 portions of porridge with one hand and electric toast with your foot. *** hahahaha *** manifestation ***